


Watching the Black Dog Dance

by WhatLocked



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Depression, Internal Monologue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 13:07:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20874695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: The depression starts off small and easy to dismiss.Only too soon does it completely consume him.





	Watching the Black Dog Dance

**Author's Note:**

> Just something short that I have had flitting around in my head for a while now.
> 
> NTW

**** ~~~~~~~~~~

I sit in my chair and watch him. He hasn’t moved all day, balled up on the couch, his back to the world. 

To me. 

It is a bad day for him.

Although, lately, every day seems to be a bad day. And each day it gets worse.

At first it was a few small episodes. Unwarranted comments, snide and snappish in nature only to be brushed off and forgotten about a few moments later.

_ _

_ It starts. The black dog, whining at the door. Not there, but not far.  _

_ I should have heard it too. But I didn’t.  _

The man, this amazing, singular man, has had so much in life and then had it destroyed. He has risen above many, only to be torn down by harsh words and foolish actions. Quite often by those who were supposed to love him. 

To protect him. 

(I am ashamed to say that I have been one of those people.) 

Yet he does not let it show. How the world hurts him. 

But I see it. 

And I cannot tell him it will be alright. They are words he has heard too many times before.

So he carries on. Shouldering his burdens alone. Thinking no one will help him.

He is a fool.

Soon the comments are more frequent and harsher. More than often directed at himself for not being adequate for a world that demands perfection. Usually, he scoffs at perfection. But not when it comes to himself. There, he holds himself higher. Expects more. Cannot tolerate failure. 

He is too hard on himself. 

_ Before long, that mongrell, as dark as night, slips in when the door is open. It is now lying in the corner, just in his vision, yet not a nuisance. _

_ I was too wrapped up in myself to notice the interloper. I should have seen it there. _

Before long, mornings in bed are stretched through to afternoons.

There is more downtime spent in front of crap TV.

Dry toast is classed as a meal.

I try to engage. To encourage. To help him through it and to let him know that he is not alone. 

I am met with disinterested stares. 

I am told not to worry. 

It will pass.

But I don’t think it is that easy.

_ The sable hound now sits at his feet, its tail wagging happily. _

_ It is too late for me to simply drive it away. It has found a home and is not willing to budge. _

He has refused work.

Razors have lost all meaning.

It is perfectly acceptable to spend three days straight in the same clothes. 

Whisky has never smelt so bitter.

I know that, in part, I am to blame for this. 

I have been blunt and uncaring at times.

I have refused to see the world the way he sees, because it does not align with my own view. 

I have left him. Walked away as if he is not worth the effort of understanding.

As if I am more important than he.

I wish I could take it all back. Do it all differently.

If he had just one person, not let him down...

_ The raven cur is a constant now. It sleeps in his bed and sits in his chair. _

_ It is trying to replace me as being his companion.  _ _ I fear it will succeed if I do not do something to heal him.  _

I want to fix him. But I don’t know how. I, a man that fixes things, does not know how to fix my best friend. 

His wounds are deep, somewhere where a scalpel can not cut. No ointment can sooth. No bandage can cover. 

How do you heal a wound that you can not see? 

It plays on my mind, that his condition will kill him. Maybe not physically (although that too is a possibility) but will kill the mind I have come to love. That, he will never be the same again. 

His essence will drain away and all that will be left will be a withered, empty husk. 

Each day comes closer to that eventuality. 

_ The ebony bitch now has it’s paws on his shoulders. The beast is as big as him and it has a smile on it’s face. _

_ I loathe the beast, but not as much as I loathe myself for letting it get so close. _

He has not left his room in four days. The only time he speaks is to yell at everyone who dares enquire after him.

Mrs Hudson left the flat in tears, yesterday. 

Not because he had yelled. 

But because of what is happening to him.

He refuses all help. 

It hurts, looking at him. 

He is gaunt and too thin.

He is not sad - that I could handle.

He is empty. 

You can see it in his eyes.

It pains me to look at him and to know that I am going to break what little trust he had in me.

I call Mycorft.

_ The black dog dances. Joyous and triumphant. _

_ I have lost the battle.  _

It has been six weeks since I put John in the hospital. 

It has been two weeks since he has been home.

Each day gets better.

For him.

For me.

For us.

There are relapses, but these (as I know from personal experience) are to be expected a nd are few.

What is promising, is that he rebounds from them. Some setbacks take longer to overcome than others, but he does recover.

He now confides in me more. 

I now appreciate him more.

We are building ourselves up, together.

_ For now, the black dog is gone. And while it may whine at the door, I know that I can never let it in. I can never let it dance again.  _

_ Because next time, it may not leave. _

  
  



End file.
